Trust
by lembas7
Summary: Trust. It's on every coin, every bill, every buck and every bond in this country. And it is still the one thing that you can't buy.
1. Scott Free

**Disclaimer:** The premise and characters of 'The Pretender' are the property of MTM Enterprises and 20th Century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** Based on the 2nd Season episode, 'Scott Free'. Dialogue lifted directly from the show. Rated for a bit of language. A one shot, for now . . .

**Summary:** Trust. It's on every coin, every bill, every buck, and every bond in this country. And it is still the one thing that you can't buy. Argyle. 'Unforgotten' (2nd Season)

* * *

TRUST

I don't know why the hell I did it.

I look back now, and tell myself I was at the end of my rope. Nick and Dewey had Shawn – and I knew up to the minute how long he'd been missing. Seventy-three hours, fourteen minutes Avani'd had that bastard hold my son from me, just to make sure I'd be with him on the hit. Twenty million dollars in diamonds was too much for him to give up. I'd have traded it all to have my boy back.

Nick pushed me. I'd lost my life for seven years for him. I got out, and he waltzed in like he owned me. I'd do the job, just to see the back of him. One job was worth the risks. Then, he pushed me. He took Shawn.

So the gun at his neck was my answer. I'd told the new guy, R.H., that looking scary was enough, for me. Now, it wasn't. I'd get Shawn back, or kill Nick trying.

I was going to do it – because it was the only answer I had. Nick'd be gone, and no more Avani meant no more threat to Shawn. Dewey'd be rudderless, and I'd get my boy back alive. Somehow.

I needed to tell myself that, just to load the damn thing. It was a heavy weight in my pocket, burning a hole through my coat. But I was going to do it.

"I want to know where Shawn is and I want to know right now!"

I told myself it would work, that Nick would finally take me seriously, that I could get Shawn and go home, right up until the moment I had the muzzle jammed into his neck. Then he looked at me. Nick Avani looked at me like you'd look at a street bum begging for a buck, sleeping in a box. I saw the pity, and I saw the triumph. I had the gun, but somehow he'd won. The next five minutes didn't matter, because no matter what, he'd won. And I'd lost Shawn.

"You pull the trigger on me, you pull the trigger on Shawn."

What the hell was I going to do?

Then the new guy, R.H. Cross, started to talk to me. "Scotty. Let him go."

"Where is Shawn? Where's my boy?" I ignored him, even though I hadn't heard anyone speak so gently to me since my mom had died. I needed my son. Nick was the only way.

"We finish this job, you and Shawn will be back together again, I promise." The sincerity caught at me, made me stop screaming inside and think. I barely knew R.H. from Adam; so we'd worked together, done a job, talked a little. Business. A business I'd thought I'd left in prison. But my eyes never left Nick. He and I had to finish this.

"Give me the gun." The soft voice again, confident in that promise.

"Give me the gun." R.H. sounded tense, now. A warning in his tone. He was worried, for me. Which didn't make any sense, but I knew it was true.

Then the damndest thing happened.

I trusted him.

So R.H. got my gun; no way was I giving Nick a loaded weapon. Not after I'd tried to shoot him with it. I left, but I heard him, smug and fat with it, before the door slammed behind me. "Never underestimate the father-son bond."

Seventy-three hours and fourteen minutes Shawn had been kidnapped. At seventy-three hours and fourteen minutes, I heard R.H. call my name. The drill bit had broken; it had to be fixed, fast, or we were cooked.

"Scotty, I gimme a hand over here, willya?"

"Yeah, one second. I'm nearly done."

"Now."

I was surprised by that. Same tone of voice, warning, worried, I'd heard in the warehouse. It got me worried, but I went to him. Something was going down. "Yeah, sure."

I found out just seconds later what he was up to. I couldn't believe my ears.

"I want Scotty's son brought back to him."

"Open these doors." Despite being locked up, Nick didn't lose his cool.

"Maybe you don't understand English. I want Shawn released. I know Dewey's got him. So you call him and you tell him to cut him loose."

Nick was chained, and had a gun on R.H. "You open the door or you die."

"Go ahead."

I thought R.H. had a death wish, for certain.

"You tell him, Scotty." Nick knew I knew what he'd done to stay free; he was counting on me to talk R.H. down, like R.H. had talked me down in the warehouse.

"Nick, don't." It was the only thing I could think to say.

R.H. shrugged, but I didn't take my eyes off the gun. He was gonna get himself killed, trying to help me. What did he think he was doing?

"Shoot." A challenge, to Nick? R.H. was crazy.

Nick didn't waste any time pulling the trigger. But then I saw what R.H. was up to. Nick stared at the flame dancing from the muzzle of the gun, which was really just a very fancy, realistic, and expensive lighter. And relief hit me like a drug. Hope wasn't too far behind.

"You see, sometimes looking dangerous is enough," R.H. repeated what I'd told him, days before. "And sometimes it's not. Now. Call him." Dangerous tone of voice, then. I glanced over at R.H., and saw his eyes. Wide, intent on Nick. Deadly. "Dial."

I saw the phone go out, saw Nick dial, and prayed he wouldn't be stupid enough to cross this man. Dangerous as R.H. was, he was on my side. "Come on."

R.H. waited, listening to the phone. I watched him hold it out to Nick, and the next words he said made my world right again.

"This is Nick. Let the kid go. Yes. Right now!"

Then, he hit the phone viciously, turning it off.

"The phone?"

Nick threw it through the bars, toward R.H.'s bum arm. Thought he was going to win, make the other man bend and pick it up when the plastic bounced off.

And that's when I found out how well I'd placed my trust. The dead left arm, the one he'd been dragging around for days, rose and effortlessly caught the phone. Nick lost again; and whoever the hell this guy was, he was proof that Nick had been going to lose since the beginning.

"Mm, mm, mm. You should have called Trinney."

Shock was a good word for it. I tried to find my tongue, and managed to look up from the floor long enough to catch the gaze of the man next to me. The man who had gotten my son back.

For the first time, his eyes were open to me. To see into the heart of a man, you need to strip away the lies. Threats will do that. I'd held a gun on him, seen emotions I couldn't understand. A man who thinks he might die from a bullet in his heart doesn't feel resignation – unless he's been expecting it. But where, then, had the betrayal I'd seen come from? It was hidden more deeply than the fear, but it had still been there.

Now, I saw something I never expected, not out of a criminal safecracker outta Brooklyn. Kindness. Sympathy, telling me that he knew what I was going through. And dancing behind all the others, mischief. I'd seen it long enough from my son to recognize it now.

I don't know why the hell I did it.

But it brought my son back to me.

Trust.


	2. Over the Edge

**A/N:** Based on the 2nd Season episode, 'Over the Edge'. Dialogue lifted directly from the show.

* * *

It was easier than I thought it would be.

It was stupid to put myself in that position, I know that now. Especially with everything that had happened, with Chris's attempted suicide, and Bobby . . . There was no good reason for my actions. But it happened, regardless; and probably would have happened anyway, really. I was lucky.

I was finishing up my report for the Captain when it happened.

"Hey, Joellen." I knew the voice, but when I looked up and saw Bobby, I froze. My heart was pounding wildly, and I just wanted to get away. I kept my eyes down on my paper. "Where is everybody?"

"They're around somewhere." I tried to keep it casual, but his question scared me.He called my bluff. "That's funny, 'cause I only saw your car out there in the parking lot." I knew the tone of voice, the smug, satisfied, predatory look that would be on his face.

"Yeah." I'd come to work early, to try to get this report finished. I hadn't thought he'd be here, that he'd corner me so easily. "Please, Bobby. I have work to do." I hadn't tried pleading before, hadn't been this scared. I was alone. Why wouldn't he just _stop_ _it_?

"The captain assign that to you?" He leant in over me, his body too close to mine and blocking my way to the door. Making me aware of how much bigger he was than me, how much stronger.

I tried to hide my fear, even though it was strangling my voice in my throat. "Yes. And he wants it done before he comes in." Too much to hope that I'd put him off with the threat.

"Oh. I guess that means when I make captain, you'll do exactly what I say, huh?" He lifted a finger then, reaching to trace the outline of my ear.

I shot out of my chair and away, unable to take it anymore. "Don't!"

He slammed the chair violently out of his way, stalking towards me. I jumped as the metal hit the wall, clutching my arms around myself. Fear, bright and hot, washed over me. I tensed, ready to run – but I couldn't get around him. I couldn't move. Oh, God, it was really happening.

"I don't like games," he snarled, low and ugly. One hand came up, slashing the air between us.

"You'll never guess what I just found," a cool voice interrupted him, and Bobby turned. I saw the anger slip away, saw the smile slide into its place. Quick, easy, and he was the Bobby Cain everyone else saw. That scared me almost as much as everything else.

"Hey, Jarod. I didn't, uh, I didn't see your car outside." The last of the nervousness slipped away, as Bobby looked at Jarod's face and decided he hadn't seen anything.

"I took the bus." Jarod's voice was colder than I had ever heard it. No doubt, the new guy was a little strange, but not in a bad way.

"Oh."

"A seedless watermelon." Jarod held up the fruit. The silence was rabidly uncomfortable, but I didn't care. All I could feel was relief. "Now I wonder how they get them out."

"Yeah. Listen, uh, I got some work I gotta do. I'll, uh, talk to you later." Bobby picked up the papers he had left on the desk, giving me a last look that made me shiver.

He headed for the door, and I grabbed my chair, falling into it in front of the desk. I stared at my report, picked up my pen.

In the corner of my eye, Jarod gently set the watermelon down, sitting himself. "If I'm tired, you must be exhausted."

"Why?" I was giddy with relief.

"Well, not only do you have to work and train all day like the rest of us, but you have to put up with him."

"What do you mean?" I had to look at him, but didn't want to face the understanding and the kindness from this guy who was still almost a complete stranger. Besides, what could he really –

"Him looking over your shoulder," Jarod's dark eyes were soft, kind. "Constantly wondering when he'll show up. What he'll want. The rage. The powerlessness." His voice turned rough, then, eyes deep with memory. "I know it would eat at me until I wanted to scream."

It hit something in me, smacking hard against the wall I'd built to keep Bobby – and everyone else – out.

Outside, passing the rescue trucks and headed toward the street, I found myself confessing everything. "At first it seemed like harmless flirting. I thought I could handle it. Handle Bobby, but . . . he's so aggressive! It scares me!"

We crossed the street, and Jarod looked both ways. "Being the only woman. You must have felt trapped."

"Well I know that if I complained to McMann, I would get nothing but flak. Bobby would only deny it, and I'd become the black sheep of the squad, if I wasn't fired. Believe me, it's hard enough being 'one of the boys' around here. So I just kept my mouth shut."

"And then Chris found out?" All the empathy in the world in his voice. How could he understand?

I put a hand to my hair, shoving the tears back. Crying never did anyone any good. "One night, Bobby . . . touched me. I was upset." I'd been sobbing, in the back of the rescue truck. "Chris comforted me. He's such a great guy, y'know? As if dealing with his own problems wasn't enough, he wanted to take care of me, too." I took a breath. "He was really angry with Bobby. He even wrote up a report, but . . . I couldn't sign it." I knew what would happen even if I did. Nothing.

"Well, you should have." The certainty in Jarod's voice had me swinging around to face him, confused. "You're not the first woman to feel this way."

He reached into his pocket, and I blinked, trying to figure out what he was saying. He pulled out an envelope, and a piece of paper, handing it to me. "Bobby's done this before." Disgust, resolution. "In Portland. He almost lost his job. His wife nearly left him. But he _intimidated_ the victim until she dropped the charges."

But that still didn't mean anything. "I don't know." Despair filled me. "He's connected, Jarod. Bobby's about to become _captain_. Even if I take him on . . . " I shook my head. "He'll win."

"Don't be so sure." He smiled, a tight little smile.

To this day, I don't know why I reached for the help Jarod was offering. He wasn't the first. Chris had been. But Chris . . . Chris had come out of the coma, but he had a long way to go before he'd be out of the Spokane Free Clinic. So I did what I do best – my job. And I did my best to ignore Bobby, and his insinuations. It was hard, and then it was too much. Jarod knew.

So, for the first time since Chris had tried to kill himself, I reached out.

It was easier than I thought it would be.

But it gave me my freedom back.

Trust.


	3. Stolen

**A/N:** Based on the 2nd Season episode, 'Stolen'. Dialogue lifted directly from the show, except for the last sequence.

* * *

Every instinct I had was screaming at me not to do it.

He was in George's truck, wearing his hat, claiming to be him even as he stared down the barrel of my 45. Over twenty years in the FBI, instincts don't just roll over and go away. He was dangerous – that was easy to tell, just from the calm stare leveled at the gun. He had to be out of his mind, thinking that he could fool me into believing he was George Harper. I'd been the man's head of security for the last seven years; did this think I was blind _and_ stupid?

But for some reason, even with the boy's life on the line, something was telling me to stay calm, not to shoot him.

My gut hadn't failed me before, so I waited. Reigned in the urge to cuff this guy, or better yet, just squeeze the trigger. Pushed back the wild, insane beating of my heart that _this was him_, the guy who had kidnapped Patrick, and _listened_.

He said he was a doctor, who wanted to help. He'd come across the note, the picture, in George's pocket, after he'd been hit. God, those had been some of the worst moments of my life.

But somehow, despite spending his life buried in medical texts, he'd been able to figure out what was going on, and get himself to the meeting point, and pretend to be the local hospital's newest patient, hale and whole. Fooled the kidnapper into thinking he was George, with more success than he'd had on me.

He was on our side, trying to get Patrick back, just as concerned for the boy's life as I was.

And he was smarter than me.

I'd never seen someone work like this. His room, when we went to look at the security tape I never would have thought to check for, was bare. But there were massive amounts of random objects – the Pez, for one.

I've been trained to catalogue, to notice and remember the quirks. This guy had a lot of 'em. He would watch the tape, over and over, looking for clues, and ended up just as frustrated as me. He was pouring his all into this – and I can recognize when something is personal as opposed to professional. Strange to think it, but this man was eerily familiar with FBI routine, although he approached it from outside the box. Regardless, Jarod was taking this kidnapping _very_ personally.

At least, that was what I believed, until the background reports of Jarod Pearce came back. "Got it."

"I want to check up on Harper, before I get the call," he said, voice low.

Fury ran rampant through me, boiling in my veins. I let him get ahead of me, before I pulled out my gun. "I almost bought your little blowup back there." He turned, lips tight. "That was my office on the phone. When I ran the background check on the driver, I ran one on you too. You're a tough man to track, Dr. Pearce. Maybe that's 'cause you died in 1979." I couldn't hold in the bitterness. "You didn't pretend to be Harper in that phone booth. You made a deal with the kidnapper." Gritting the words out through clenched teeth, I stared him down. "How much is he paying you?" I had him.

The phone rang.

"Look." Desperation, in wide brown eyes. "I know you think about Patrick like he was your own son. And you probably saw some pretty horrible things happen to children when you worked for the FBI."

I couldn't keep my mind off what I'd seen, the horror of what twisted people could do to the small innocents in their power.

"And you're afraid the same thing is going to happen to him." The phone was still ringing. Damn him! "But I swear to you that all I want to do is help this boy. And I can't help him unless I answer this phone call."

The ringing was loud in the silence. Nothing I could do; but there was something in his gaze that whispered of honesty. Seconds, only, to make my decision.

"Please. Trust me."

Absolutely no reason I should do it. None.

Except Patrick's life.

I nodded.

And life went to hell in a handbasket. Ten minutes we had to run back to the phonebooth on the corner of Myrtle and Lime. Then, a frantic two hours before we knew that, despite the money we were handing over, Patrick would be dead. The last thing we needed were free agents crawling all over the place.

I was cuffed to a bedstead, staring out into the hall, and I heard every word they said. Jarod was the only one who could help us, and they were after him. And the woman with them didn't care that Patrick would be dead without him. Less than five minutes; God, I could feel the boy's life slipping from our grasp.

I couldn't believe it when, despite the odds, Jarod escaped, running from them and after Patrick.

Adrenaline slammed into me; my heart was racing, and I was stuck, knowing nothing, _doing nothing_, and clamped to the damn bedstead. I shouted, and yanked at the cuff. "Let me out of here! Dammit, let me _go_!"

The woman with the chill blue eyes swore, and tossed the keys to the grey-haired man with her. They exchanged a knowing look; I couldn't care less. Patrick was all that mattered, and because of them, he was almost as good as dead.

I calmed down when the old man approached, and let him unlock me. As soon as the metal cuff swang free, I stood and turned on him. "I don't know what you're after," I snarled. "But your interference just caused a ten-year-old boy his life."

The man paled, and the woman sneered. I saw the carelessness in blue eyes, and shook my head in disgust.

The hospital was the only place I could go now; Jarod wouldn't desert Patrick, or George. One way or another, the answers would be there.

The ride was interminably long. Defeat crashed in on me, cold and crushing. I didn't know how I was going to face George, didn't know what I was going to do, say. It had to be done, but – God –

Noise inside the room caught my attention. Loud voices, tears . . . laughter?

And I could see inside, the familiar blonde head caught up against his father's chest, small body hugging tight. I froze outside the window, unable to believe what I was seeing. Patrick was alive; Jarod had come through!

Every instinct I had was screaming at me not to do it.

But it saved the life of my best friend's son.

Trust.


	4. Fin

_"Sydney."_

_"Jarod." Quiet joy on one end of the line that was missing from the other. "I haven't heard from you."_

_"Do you ever think about it, Sydney? All the things we've built, and broken?"_

_Hesitation. "I'd like to think the former outweighs the latter."_

_"I know that it doesn't."_

_"What are you talking about, Jarod?" _

_"Trust."_

_A pained breath, too quiet for the younger man to hear; he seems to know, anyway. The psychiatrist gathers himself enough to ask the question. "Whose trust, Jarod? Yours?"_

_It is ignored, as he knew it would be. "It's everywhere. I had no idea."_

_Sydney waits, a tense silence. _

_"School bus drivers, entrusted with the lives of the children they ferry back and forth. Doctors, nurses, EMT's, police, firemen – but others too. Trust that those who work in the grocery stores are not contaminating the food they sell. Trust in automobile manufacturers not to skimp to save lives. Trust, in every aspect of every shade of life. I had no idea."_

_"It's not something many people recognize, Jarod." Gentle, soothing to the hurt bewilderment in that voice. _

_"It crosses my mind, Sydney, that every pretend I have ever done is centered around a breach in trust," Jarod admits. "It is . . . a vulnerability."_

_"To abuse someone's trust is an awful thing," Sydney says quietly. _

_"Yes." Bitter accusation, not undeserved. "You see, Sydney, when you lie to someone, they don't know what to expect from you. And when they don't know what to expect, they believe you capable of anything. Miracles . . . or monstrosities."_

_"I am not perfect, Jarod." A pause, a whispered confession. "But I'd like to believe that there have been more miracles in my life than monstrosities."_

_"Do you really, Sydney?" _

_Soft sarcasm, but he knows the pretender well, hears it for the plea it is. "Yes." Courage, here. "You, for one."_

_A short breath, surprise. _Click.

_"Jarod?"_

_Silence. _

_**Fin**_


End file.
